


Somewhere Between  (AKA: The Loveseat)

by TVateMyBrain (datsunblue)



Series: The Ghost of Sherlock Holmes [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Always with the gayness, Awww I didn't mean that, Gen, I'm not gay!, Now there are more tags than there is writing, One Shot, One Shot Collection, Sometimes you just need a bit of physical interaction to make you human again, Unrequited, Watstrade?, unrequited what though?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 20:00:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1197636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/datsunblue/pseuds/TVateMyBrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has moved in with Greg, because he can't handle being at Baker Street without Sherlock. Their flat is TINY. But that has it's advantages.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Somewhere Between  (AKA: The Loveseat)

* * * * *  
It's not a loveseat.  
Of course the term makes him uncomfortable. He wishes it had never been referred to as such.

It's just a two-seater sofa.

A two-seater, in front of the telly, in the small basement flat he shares.

It is, at least, comfortable. If small.

It's worn fabric has cradled other bodies, before theirs.  
Sun faded, to the colour of a ghost's eyes. It's previous rich denim-blue, still visible under the cushions.

Wide arms for elbows and hands. Precarious cups of tea, never yet spilled.

It fills the space available, which isn't much. Almost seems dwarfed by the flat screen TV opposite, and the ottoman where they rest their feet and newspapers.

At first hesitant, they circled each other in this tiny space. Learning to gauge the exact presence of the other. Positions and angles of limbs. Reactions smoothing out. 

Within days they had developed the rhythm. An easy dance. Pressing against each other in passing, The kitchenette their ballroom. Slippers and socks, their dancing shoes.

So quickly they slipped into each others pockets. Until small touches were the braille they used to read each others moods. Blind to the development of the secret language between them.

Evenings and lazy Sundays spent, thigh pressed to thigh, shoulder to shoulder. A hug without an embrace. Clinging to each other without realization, as they both navigate a world populated by ghosts.

 

Getting a bigger sofa, is never, ever, mentioned.

* * * * *


End file.
